Le Deluge
by Incitata
Summary: Discontinued: Follow Hermione Granger, deep into the heart of the Malfoy household and the Ministry of Magic. Mystery, romance, temptation, and not a small measure of danger. A conspiracy - read it and creep.
1. Small Things

**__**

Le Deluge

~o~

"Apres nous, le deluge" 

Attributed to Madame de Pompadour in 1757, and widely viewed as a premonition of political and social collapse in France, and of the Ancien Regime…

~o~

Chapter 1: Small things

~o~

Amongst the publications that clutter our newstands, and the roughly printed handbills that proliferate in more restrictive regimes, there has never been one as extraordinary or as influential as the _Daily Prophet_. Even the Red Tops of Fleet Street, screaming their conspiracies with all the gall and hype and deceit behind, cannot compete with the _Prophet_. Yet these scandalous sheets, reporting happenings as they wish to interpret are, and remain, a battlefield in both the Muggle and the Wizarding worlds. Odd then that the players of these games choose to wage war in an arena that they do not control or even understand.

Or perhaps not…

~o~

The sunlight filtered through the roof of the conservatory, bringing with it a gentle breeze that entered through three windows, propped open with sticks. The breeze carried the fresh scent of dew, and hinted of warmth to come. For in a few hours, when the sun rose high enough to breach the ivy-clad wall that separated the garden from the neighbour's, the heat would be unbearable to anyone with less resilience than a cactus. But for now, Hermione found it the ideal place to sit, elbows planted firmly either side of the _Daily Prophet_, chin resting on her hands. She shifted, turning the page and raising her mug to her lips. 

"…caused outrage last night after condemning Lucius Malfoy's pro-Muggle stance. 

Talking to Rita Skeeter, Correspondent for Ministry Matters, outside his London home, Mr Malfoy made this comment; "I am deeply troubled that the values of forgiveness and openness have faded so far from the heart of the magical community..." 

Hermione snorted, tiny droplets of tea spattered the page. Unable to draw her eyes away she groped for a tea towel to mop up the liquid, wondering when the qualities of forgiveness and openness had become applicable to Draco's father. But as she continued to read she could almost hear his rich melodic voice stroking her consciousness, making her want to believe.

"…who that are perhaps a little less…fortunate than ourselves. We must help them to understand our ways, not castigate them for being …_different_. Of course, there is no pleasing some people. I'm sure that I need not remind you that only one week ago, one Arthur Weasley attempted to separate a Muggle-born witch from the wizarding roots that she so recently cultivated. I refer of course to the case of Miss Hermione Granger, a Hogwarts student who was granted special dispensation to have an off-peak connection to the Floo network from her _Muggle_ home. Only an extraordinary chance allowed this travesty to be discovered, and the disconnection order quashed. I ask you, is this any way to develop understanding between the Muggle and the Magical worlds? I think not. 

"I was particularly shocked to learn that young Miss Granger, and one of Weasley's litter recently had a falling out? I pray that this measure was only a coincidence, but could it be that the desperation of these meddlers is so great that they must resort to using _playground_ alliances to justify their means and bring credence to their paranoid fantasies…" 

Suddenly hearing a woman's voice that did not belong to her mother, Hermione rolled up the Prophet, then clutching the bamboo frame of the table, she ducked and tucked it behind a round bellied copper pot that stood on the floor. She hoped that the leaves of the plant within would hide it from view. As the door opened she arranged her face into an expression that she hoped lay between sympathy and understanding; she did this because of the woman who was with her mother.

"Hello, Mrs Beynon," Hermione said checking to make sure that everything non-Muggle was out of sight as her mother ushered her companion through the kitchen and into the conservatory. "Do have a seat."

Until a month ago, Mrs Beynon and her son Paul had lived next door to the Grangers; they'd lived there as long as Hermione could remember and until she and Paul left for school, they had been very close. 

A month ago, Paul died. 

It wasn't an ordinary death. 

The local paper reported it as a freak weather condition, and after wheeling out an expert on such phenomena, they promptly forgot about the whole occasion. The other newspaper that reported on the story drew a slightly different conclusion. The flash was not lightening, but a Death Eater-style attack in which she, Hermione, was widely believed to have been the intended victim. She could still remember the headline, as bold and blunt as a Bludger; _"Quidditch Star's Ex in AK Alarm." _

That paper still ran regular conspiratorial analyses of the event. 

Hermione grabbed her mug and the slightly damp teatowel and placed them on the bench that formed the border between kitchen and conservatory. "Would you like tea or coffee, Mrs Beynon?" she asked, leaning against the counter as her mother held the kettle under the gushing tap.

"Tea please, dear," replied Mrs Beynon through the scarf tied fussily about her throat. Hermione smiled and reached for the teapot. 

"I hope we didn't ruin your work," whispered Hermione's mother apologetically.

"I hadn't started," Hermione replied, "I wanted to read the paper. Did you know that the Ministry nearly took away our floo connection?" she asked softly.

"Really?" her mother replied, inserting a spoon beneath the tightly sealed rim of a canister. The lid popped off, falling to the counter, spinning. She proceeded to spoon dry leaves into the green pot. "No, I didn't," she continued, "I suppose those nice Weasleys helped us out there. They helped us with the paperwork in the first place." 

"Actually," Hermione said, placing her finger firmly on the lid to stop the spinning, "it was Draco's father who helped us."

"Really…Hermione." Her mother inclined her head sharply toward the table where Mrs Beynon sat, "We can talk about this later."

Just past her mothers elbow, Hermione saw Mrs Beynon leaning closer to the plant that masked the _Prophet, _and then she began to finger the wide leaves. "I must say, that aspidistra is coming along nicely. What's your secret?" 

"Do you take sugar?" Hermione chipped, hoping to cut short the current horticultural investigations that might lead to questions that would be rather difficult to answer.

Mrs Beynon straightened. She nodded, and as she opened her mouth her expression weakened as though remembering someone she was trying hard not to dwell upon. "How was school?" she asked as if from very far away.

"Fine. You know how it is; essays, homework, exams," Hermione took a sugarbowl from the shelf and placed it on the tray that her mother had placed on the counter, "I hope I'll be Head Girl next year. Oh, excuse me, the kettle's boiled!"

The moment her back was to their visitor, Hermione began to talk quickly and quietly to her mother, breathless, like one who was greatly bothered by something; "The Malfoys have invited me to stay."

"To stay?" Her mother placed her spectacles carefully on the bridge of her nose, "All summer?" 

"Just two weeks," Hermione explained. 

"We can't possibly discuss it now, Hermione," she said shortly, adding, "We've got company."

~0~

In her bedroom, with her feet propped on the edge of her desk, Hermione mused on the debate with her parents. Even the prospect of spending a summer with Viktor Krum hadn't caused such deliberation. She hadn't said much to them about the Malfoys. It was difficult to interest her parents, more than superficially, in wizarding goings-on. It did however, raise the question of what the Weasleys had said. Ever since they'd met just before the start of her second year, Hermione knew that her parents had corresponded with Ron's. She twisted a strand of hair round her finger, idly watching the cloudless sky. 

So, opposition from her parents wasn't too surprising. Why should they let her stay with a family they didn't know? 

But eventually they had given in. 

"Are you there?" an echoing voice inquired, interrupting her thoughts. 

She leaned toward the iron fireplace in the corner of her room, curious to see the flames dancing, behind the now singed display of dried flowers. Kneeling, Hermione moved this aside. "How did you light my fire?" she asked.

"If you can't remember that, I can't help you," replied Draco's voice. Then the image of his head settled, cocked coyly to one side.

Hermione grunted, brushing charred petals from her wrist. "They say I can come," she said, "Still okay at your end?"

"Of course!" he shrugged, "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Did you read the Prophet today?" she asked wondering, not for the first time, how much he really knew about his father's affairs.

"Then I'd have nothing to do in the afternoon."

"Draco, I'm being serious."

"Not to mention tiresome," he sighed and appeared to stretch, "Actually, I didn't bother to read it but I know what it said. Didn't get much choice. Picture this: father struts in, crowing and cackling like an old rooster and flings it down in the middle of the table. It sent mother's scrambled eggs flying onto the floor. Then he proceeded to read it to us."

"Exactly what you want at breakfast," Hermione remarked in sympathy.

"Twice."

"Poor old you. Are you sure I can't reach through? You look like you could do with some comforting," she said, "I could get the oven gloves from downstairs."

"I thought we'd gone through that," Draco scowled, "Don't try to get through! Father's a bit paranoid about privacy and, well, let's say that you're unlikely to come through at this end with your limbs in the right place. There are…certain…measures on the grates that are actually networked. And, well I don't know how to remove them."

"Well, doesn't that give us a problem?"

"I'm not sure I understand…" he said. 

"About getting to your house."

"I thought you knew the way."

"From Hogsmeade, yes. But I don't live in Hogsmeade, and if you think I'm going to let you twist me into breaking the law again, forget it! I'll not Apparate again until I have a license."

"Most people would be proud that they could do that first time...and without even knowing what the spell was…"

"Well, as you keep telling me, I'm not most people. So, can you send a map or something?"

"It'll not do much good," he announced, "We're Unplottable."

"You're really selling paranoia palace to me, Draco. Got something to hide?"

"Everyone has secrets," he said "Though the Ministry actually agrees with you. They revoked our status a few years back after… anyway, we got round it. Too many Muggles kept knocking on the door asking to look round. Father suggested that something unfortunate might happen to them if it didn't stop and… so how is Muggledom?" he asked suddenly.

"No change," she said, "I saw Paul's mum today." 

  
"Who?"

"Mrs Beynon."

Draco's brow creased and he scratched his head, "Remind me," he suggested.

"Paul, the boy who died."

"Ah!" Through the flames she saw Draco tense, and she knew that he had remembered Paul very clearly. 

It didn't occur to her to ask him why. 

~o~

One week later, Hermione waited with her parents by the hedge that hid their shady garden and the Victorian villa from the street. The hedge was in need of a trim but like the road and its houses, it had grown comfortable with its identity and felt no need to smarten itself up. Her parents peered curiously at the glossy Bentley, which pulled up beside the crooked kerb-stone which retreated as it lost its silent battle to maintain order to the roots of the lime tree that lifted the uneven paving stones. In broad daylight the goblin driver popped open the door and stepped onto the pavement; because they didn't react, Hermione thought perhaps her parents weren't seeing the same thing as she. Shunning her father's offer of help, the driver began to lift Hermione's things into the boot.

"Strange little man!" Mr Granger said quietly.

"Don't mind Garak," Hermione said as if she knew him rather better than she actually did, "He's a Goblin."

"Like those at Gringotts Bank?" 

"There's no other type, Dad! Thank you, Garak," she added as she noticed him ready, by the passenger door, the tip of his long nose just level with the top.

"Could you pass Crookshanks?" she asked and her father lifted the heavy wicker basket into her arms, "Thanks." She could see the cat inside, sitting stiffly with his back to her though the tip of his tail flicked against the grille, "I'll write, Mum. I'll borrow Draco's owl, then you can send it back by return."

"Enjoy yourself with these … people," her mother said.

"They don't have two heads," Hermione reminded her, though she actually thought it wise to be a little wary of the Malfoys, regardless of what new leaves they claimed to have turned. "Take care," she said, and with a wave and a flurry of bye-byes Hermione slid into the wide back seat. The door clicked shut behind her, shutting out the Muggle world. 

The car purred through familiar streets, and along the coast, passing a coach that spilled its pale contents onto the wide promenade; soon the lights of arcades and fish restaurants were behind them. The coastline was green and even, and just beyond the sea glinted, silver against the blue sky.

Reaching open countryside, Garak put his foot down (if that was possible, by Hermione's reckoning he wouldn't be able to reach the pedals). The goblin wasn't talkative, though Hermione did catch him looking curious and resentful in the mirror; she knew that he was watching her because when she continued to stare, he blinked his jet black eyes and turned away. 

Historically, Goblins were fiercely independent, rejecting any form of employment other than their own wit and cunning. Exceptions were common if it was with others of their kind or the enterprise promised them untold wealth. It made her wonder what his story was. Butling for the Malfoys didn't really seem to fulfil either dream…

There was plenty time to wonder about that later. Now the trees caught her attention and chocolate box villages that whizzed by, narrow lanes full of twists that the hulk of a car managed to negotiate with ease. Another town was close but this time they slowed to a more stately pace; Hermione dropped back in her seat. On the highstreet, people, normal Muggle people, wandered between Woolworths and Greggs and the butchers, naturally passing the time of day. They were back on a Muggle road - one that for some reason they could not bypass - though still unhindered by the tractor that was making such trouble for the other drivers. 

Houses fell away until they were very few and far between, and finally they passed a crumbling flint encrusted church surrounded by a toothy graveyard. Then they turned sharply and swept around the foot of a hill into a wide valley. 

As they approached, a pair of dark gates set in a butter coloured gatehouse swung open, then they drove straight on before going through a second set of gates. Hermione counted twenty-six twisted yew trees along the avenue as the house loomed larger, perfect in its symmetry. Draco hadn't been exaggerating when he had said that the approach from the North was impressive.

~o~

The car crunched to a halt beside the steps. Hermione paused at the bottom, gazing at the lozenge carved on the keystone, an open palm around which a snake coiled. 

Not _too_ sinister. 

Then she climbed the stairs and stepped through the open door.

The air was as thick as she remembered, but that time she had Draco to goad her on. This time the experience was all her own. Nothing had changed except the light was now that of summer, not spring. The gallery ran along the front of the house, and to her left many closed doors were interspersed with alcoves that sheltered pale busts that stared, wide-eyed through the windows. Though it was tempting, she wasn't stupid enough to try and open any of those doors. She concentrated on the one at the end that stood open. It led to the drawing room. She walked with determination, heels clicking on the boards. 

Maybe she should have dressed a little better, how were they going to react to faded jeans and a loose white shirt? 

It was too late to worry about that now. 

She pushed the door open a little further.

There was no one there. 

The air that had swelled her lungs was suddenly released, then she breathed deeply, sucking in the scent of jasmine that rose through an open window. A long, diaphanous curtain billowed in the breeze, catching on a mirrored What-not. Hermione reached to detach it, glancing out onto the courtyard below; it was preferable to look at raked gravel than the dazzling whiteness of the drawing room, which was so ostentatious that it could only be described as tasteful.

"Take a seat," suggested…

"Draco!" she spun round, then darted across the room. He had been leaning, arms folded, against the moulded doorframe with a calm, contemplative, and above all satisfied look upon his face. Hermione threw herself at him as though she hadn't seen him for a year, and he caught her in his arms as she almost knocked him off his feet. 

"Hmmm," he groaned, holding her close, "I could eat you." His lips were soft and dry against hers, coaxing. Her hand trailed over his jaw, his brow, into the hair that fell forward onto her face, tickling her nose. She was absorbed in the heady mix of lime and ginger that surrounded him, feeling him draw her ever closer. 

"I'll show you to your room," he said, hoarsely taking her hands and drawing her toward the doorway, "I can't stand this boudoir. Mother's idea of fashion, and father's idea of a nightmare. Honestly, there's not another room like it in the place. I can't believe he lets her keep it this way! Come on." 

Hand in hand they walked quickly along the hallway, attracting whispers from the Malfoy lineage who peered down their long straight noses and twisted their lips derisively as they passed. With a scornful glance over his shoulder, Draco led her up the stairs. Once upon a time he had taken her through the blue curtain at the left branch but this time they went up to the right, toward the back of the house. 

The corridor faced south across fields, rippling grass separated from the smooth lawns by a ha-ha. In the nearest paddock, several horses grazed, each one as black and glossy as newly spilled ink. It was only on the second glance that Hermione noticed they had wings.

"Didn't I tell you?" said Draco, nuzzling the back of her neck, "Mother breeds them, don't you remember? … ah, I never got a far as showing you, did I. Thestrals, damned long bloodline. Seven hundred years." He paused, perhaps recalling what happened the first time she was here. "My parents will be about later. No idea where they've got to. Maybe dropping off the face of the earth or something useful for a change." 

Whenever Draco started saying things like that about his family, he was very difficult. His fuse, always short, tended to burn very quickly and unpredictably. She didn't really want to start her stay with a row so Hermione said nothing and simply smiled and watched his reflection in the warped window pane.

"Here," he turned a handle and ushered her into an enormous chamber. Hermione tugged back one of the curtains and with an effort raised the sash letting a little light and air into the room. It shifted the dust that glittered in the air. More blue velvet formed the canopy of the bed and swathed a doorway through which she glimpsed a tiled floor.

"Oh, by the way, Hermione," said Draco, eyes flicking over her, "We dress for dinner here."

She bit her lip. "You could have warned me!"

"Never occurred to me," he shrugged, striding across the room and throwing open the door of her wardrobe and fingering her clothes, "Just wear a nice dress," he suggested.

"Thanks, Wardrobe Mistress!" she replied, running her fingers along the carved edge of the dressing table that stood beneath the window.

"Don't be facetious, it doesn't suit you! We'll meet in the drawing room at eight. If you need anything just pull that cord and ask loudly, it'll be done in an instant."

~o~

The moment he was gone, Hermione flopped on to her bed. She blinked. What was missing? It took her a moment, then she swung her legs off the bed and crossed to the open window. 

Life, that was the problem; there wasn't any, not the buzz of an insect or even the chirrup of a bird. Perhaps the Thestrals drove it away…

Feeling the need to distract herself from that thought, Hermione pulled back the curtain to the next room. A bathroom. To one side stood a great, yellow claw footed bath, and in one corner stood a large mirror. Leaning down over the bath she twisted the tap in the middle and watched as the water gushed out, splattering over the sunflower enamel. Almost as an afterthought she popped in the plug, and as she straightened she noticed a row of bottles, some tall and jewel coloured, others dark and squat on a shelf above. Taking one down, she lifted the lid and sniffed. 

Bath crystals. 

As she emptied a liberal amount into the running water, which fizzled loudly, the room exploded with scent. She placed the blue glass bottle back between its more elaborate companions and began to peel off her clothes, throwing them in a heap on the floor. 

Clipping her hair out of the way, Hermione padded across the tiled floor and slipped into the water, deep and clear and steamy. She closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift.

She didn't hear the door or even the footfall. 

Draco knelt on the floor gazing at her. Her eyes were closed, head resting on a folded flannel, feet on the other edge. The tap dripped, ripples briefly distorting the figure below. Draco smiled and reached for her.

His fingertips touched hers, "Why so jumpy?" he asked as she flinched, sloshing water onto the tiles.

"You shouldn't be here!" she scolded, sinking a little deeper in to the water.

"I thought you might need someone to scrub your back," he said innocently.

"What would your parents say?"

"Don't be so middle class, Hermione! They're old enough to know what lovers do."

Reaching out, he took the clip from her hair, watching as it tumbled over the edge of the bath and over her shoulders into the water. 

"It takes ages to dry," she grumbled.

"You'll cope," he said eyeing her glistening skin, "Now where was I. Ah yes." Running his fingers along hers, which curled over the rolled edge of the bath, slowly up her arm and over her shoulder and across her throat. Hermione quivered.

"Still want me to go?" he asked, craning forward with one arm braced against the rim of the tub. He could feel the pulse in her throat, quickening.

She shook her head.

"Didn't think so," his hand slipped easily over her moist skin, across her breast, smooth, like suede beneath his palm. His fingers paused over the mole beneath. "Your supernumerary nipple," he smirked, wondering if she realised how vulnerable she looked or even how vulnerable she was. "More proof that you're not really one of _them_."

"One of who?" She didn't move, and his hand was still, steady. He made no move to shift the sleeve of his robe, which was dangling in the water, sticking to her skin.

"That you're one of us," Again his finger flicked across that tantalisingly dark spot of skin. Then she moved, as she would if he had kissed her there. "A wizard, a witch of the true kind. You could use it to feed blood to your familiar," he added darkly. 

Her lips parted, but before she could speak, he leaned further forward and brushed her lips with his. "Quiet," he whispered, pulling back. Her head followed, just as he had known it would, her head followed. He knew that she needed him but for now he would keep that little distance. His fingers resumed their exploration, across her waist, slipping round into the small of her back, raising her slightly as his arm tensed. It was agony, real pain and all just to tease her; to make her want him even more. 

But the arms that snaked around his neck, drawing him downward, were irresistible to him, as were the lips that grazed his jaw. Soft words he would never remember were muttered in his ear as the warmth of the water surrounded him, seeping through his clothes, which stuck and clung and tangled about their bodies. Draco had no choice but to follow her lead; to relinquish control. 

~o~

In **_Chapter Two: Strange Land _**… meet the Malfoys.

****

Authors Notes:

A huge thank you to my indispensable beta's whose notes and comments have kept me laughing. **Wolf of Solitude**, **Inkbleed, **I owe you a lot. 

I've set myself a target of one chapter every five weeks, and I usually beat deadlines:)


	2. Strange Land

**__**

Le Deluge

Chapter 2: Strange Land

~o~

Hermione awoke with limbs stiff as though she had lain the night on a mattress stuffed with gravel, not goosedown. She stretched, tugging the bedspread up to her chin, defence against a chill summer night. The sliver of sky visible between the heavy curtains was still black, stars unable to penetrate the thick blanket of cloud.

As she stared, the ceiling grew darker and darker, sucking her in as silence muffled thought and feeling. Some time, darkness must have become sleep, for Neville Longbottom looped the loop across Hermione's consciousness, whooping as he grasped the broom between his legs with one hand, the other, triumphantly punching the air. Borne on the adulation of a roaring crowd, his streaming robes rippled and shone in the sunlight, the streak fading from gold to green to grey.

Blinking, Hermione realised that the grey was weak daylight, filtering through the clouds and the cheers were merely the rain spattering against the window pane. A glance at her watch informed her that it was not yet five; disheartened, Hermione slumped back against her pillow. Curiosity stirred as a phuth sounded. Her eyes snapped shut and she tried to appear to be asleep as two large blue eyes studied her. Not until she heard the sound of metal scraping on stone did she dare open them a crack. The elf was stooped by the hearth, clearing the ashes and setting a new fire in its place. As she watched, a tune, soft and mournful, drifted across the room, every word slipping with ease into her mind. Her vision blurred for a second, then for longer and longer. She dreamed no more and when she finally awoke a shaft of sunlight shone across the floor.

~o~

Leaving the door ajar, Hermione entered the breakfast room. Sunlight flooded through the arched window, tinting yellow the white cloth that decked the table. Opposite was the sideboard, laden with shining dome topped dishes. As she picked up a plate a pair of silver tongs leapt up from their tray, dipping into the dishes, the lids of which raised at the touch of Hermione's gaze.

Satisfied, she went to the table. Only two places remained. She took the one that allowed her to see through the window and into a walled courtyard. The gravel was still dark from the night's rain. 

A copy of the Daily Prophet, carefully refolded, lay between the places. Hermione unfolded it and browsed the headlines as she ate.

**__**

YOUR GOOD ELF

All is not well in the kitchens of the great and the good, writes our special correspondent for Ministry Matters, Rita Skeeter. Last night the Ministry (Office for House Elf Relocation) was rocked by a communication from a creature known only as Scargy. Scargy, believed to be an unemployed house elf, is president and founder of the National Union of Minions. He claims links to the network of elves that serve in many of our great houses (Hogwarts school is believed to employ more than a hundred). Scargy believes that he has enough support in those places to cause havoc by calling a strike if his demands for wages, paid holiday and statutory tea breaks are not met.

"Yes," remarked an official source, "House Elves are revolting – ah, don't print that," he said before going on to state unequivocally that the Ministry would not give in to such outrageous demands.

"Rogue house elves?" commented Mr Lucius Malfoy on departure from the offices of Cornelius Fudge, incumbent Minister for Magic, "It's a growing problem. Only a few years ago I had to dismiss one of mine. Such behaviour! To see it spreading is a sign of the decay that has set in. Paid holiday? They'll be demanding wands next, you mark my words."

What does this mean for the future of our society – are we to see the breakdown of our very world? Surely the Ministry will not allow one revolutionary to undermine the foundations of the wizarding world.

Hermione snorted. Skeeter had truly found her niche; wizarding politics was ideally suited to her particular brand of spin. 

Hearing footsteps in the hallway, Hermione dismissed the story. She looked forward to her day with Draco and she turned, smiling toward the door, but she could barely hide her disappointment or her surprise when the door opened and Mrs Malfoy strode into the room clad in riding boots, jodhpurs and the tweediest jacket that Hermione had ever seen.

"Good morning Miss Granger," said Mrs Malfoy. "Do you always breakfast at this hour?" she asked, arching one thin brow.

"Good morning Mrs Malfoy," Hermione replied as Draco's mother turned to the sideboard. "I'm afraid I overslept."

"Really. How odd." Mrs Malfoy laid her plate in the empty space and sat down. "I believe the men have gone off for the day. I had no idea how late it was. I trust you slept well."

"Perfectly," Hermione lied. "If you don't mind me asking, where have they gone?"

"Who?" Mrs Malfoy asked, raising a forkful of scrambled egg to her mouth. She chewed slowly, swallowed, and replied, "Ah, my husband has taken Draco to visit friends. Did Draco not mention it?" An apologetic smile spread across her lips. "How tiresome. We must find something for you to do, dear. Anything in that?" she asked, pointing at the Prophet with her empty fork.

"Not much," said Hermione, laying aside her cutlery and reaching for the teapot, which immediately rose and tilted above her cup, saving her the effort of pouring. She took a moment to observe Mrs Malfoy in the reflection of its silver surface. She sat like waxwork, betraying nothing of her thoughts in expression or in glance. "A piece about the Ministry, and a delegation of Burmese wizards are asking for the right to carry a staff instead of a wand."

"What a sight that will be on the streets of London," Mrs Malfoy commented with a shake of her head. "Honestly, the ideas these people have."

"There's an exhibition of recent runes at the museum … a new ward is to be opened at St Mungos on Thursday, and there's a piece about a house elf causing a stir. Mr Malfoy is mentioned in it." Hermione sipped her tea.

"Is he really," Mrs Malfoy said, as though that bored her, "Rather dull, don't you think? All these newspaper people swarming about the place! House elves indeed -- dreadful little creatures but necessary. Have you ever had to train one? For all the effort it takes it would be quicker to do everything oneself."

"No, Mrs Malfoy," Hermione said tightly, "We don't keep a house elf at home."

"I'm sorry, my dear, how careless of me to forget." The words were spoken as if Hermione suffered from a terminal disease to which Mrs Malfoy had made a casual reference. "I have the perfect idea -- why don't you dash and put on something more appropriate. You may spend the morning with me."

Oh joy, Hermione thought, with a glance at her skirt, "More appropriate for what, Mrs Malfoy?" she asked, puzzled.

"I thought perhaps you would like to see my Granians. I assume that Draco has told you that I keep them."

"He has," she said, feeling that the enterprise might ease the ordeal of having to spend time alone with Draco's mother. "I'd like to see them." 

"Run along then. I'll meet you outside." Hermione was about to reply but Mrs Malfoy had already seized the copy of the Prophet and had her gaze fixed firmly upon it.

Fifteen minutes later, Hermione had changed into her old jeans and a white shirt. The path between her room and the front door was becoming well worn, the doors taking care to open for her as she walked. She wondered about the doors that didn't open as she approached and what could lie behind them. Mrs Malfoy was at the bottom of the steps talking with Garak the goblin butler. She took a paisley scarf from his hands and tied it expertly over her hair, giving her the appearance of a remarkably well turned out gypsy. Hermione quickened her pace, passing Garak on the steps.

"Why Miss Granger," Mrs Malfoy said, gaze slipping from the retreating back of the butler to rest upon Hermione as she descended. "Much better. Now follow me."

The walk to the stables took them to the left of the house, through a courtyard filled with trailing roses of white and yellow. Their heady scent remained in Hermione's nostrils even after they stepped from the crunching gravel on to the rain damp grass. There was no path, but a crushed and stunted line indicated a well-trodden route toward a block of outbuildings. These appeared to be built of the same butter coloured stone as the house but patches of brick and beam showed in unusual places, as if they were covered by a stretched and badly fitted skin. Hermione glanced over her shoulder at the house wondering what lay beneath the fine regency façade.

Provided with an audience, Mrs Malfoy had begun to talk in detail about her creatures giving Hermione no chance dwell on her question. She always enjoyed listening to an expert speak about his subject and it was clear that when it came to her Granians, Mrs Malfoy was an expert.

"How long have you kept them?" Hermione asked as they walked beneath an archway and into a stable yard overlooked by many small square windows.

"An aunt gave me my first when I was eight," Mrs Malfoy replied, her booted feet striking loudly against the flagstones. "I was fascinated by them … so much more graceful than a broomstick. I have been breeding them since I left Hogwarts."

"Aren't they supposed to be very fast?"

"Not quite so efficient as Apparition, but swift all the same."

The sun had gained strength and it was a relief to step out of the muggy air into the cool shelter of the stables, where the air smelt strongly of hay and hair and wax.

Mrs Malfoy led the way past several empty stalls, and finally stopped and placed both hands on the gate. It took Hermione a minute to catch up, for as she passed she was reading the names engraved on tiny plaques set in the door of each stall … Hieronomous …Pallas…

Looking up, Hermione saw a soft nose of pearly silk nuzzling Mrs Malfoys hand, her other arm outstretched behind the massive head, fingers lost in the creature's smooth mane. "I currently have ten," she said, not taking her eyes off the animal. "Most of them are outside, but this one is ready to breed and she needs to be kept away from a certain stallion. I have another one in mind for her." 

With a rustle of feathers, the animal swung its head away from Mrs Malfoy and turned a bright black eye on the newcomer. Hermione felt sweat bead on her brow as they scrutinised her, the dark gaze of the creature joined by the cool blue eyes of her hostess.

"This is Lucasta. I'll not bore you with her full name." Mrs Malfoy turned once more to the horse before stepping back and gesturing for Hermione to move closer. "She is a little wary of strangers. Though we might take her out for a run, so to speak. Do you ride?" 

"I had lessons once, but the pony didn't have wings."

"I expect not. The principles are the same of course." Mrs Malfoy sighed. 

Slowly, Hermione reached for its nose. "Palm flat!" snapped Mrs Malfoy, grazing Hermione's curled fingers with a sharp dash of her fingertips. Startled, the Granian jumped back. "Her teeth can easily crush through bone. There are some oats in that bag, which have been steeped in honey and vodka. She likes those."

Amazed at how similar the woman's tone was to Draco's, Hermione did not protest. Dipping her hand in the bag slung on a hook on the door of the stall, Hermione drew out a damp sticky clump. The aroma made her feel woozy. Immediately the beast came forward and in seconds its velvet lips were flicking over Hermione's palm. She took the opportunity to stroke its strongly muscled neck, astonished to find that it was covered in tiny opalescent scales. As she turned, she noticed that Mrs Malfoy had positioned herself on a beam that ran across the room, her fingers trailing over the polished surface of a dragonhide saddle. Around her were other pieces of tack to which Hermione could not put a name.

"Do you like her?" Mrs Malfoy asked, swinging her booted feet back and forth. "I can trace her blood line back more than seven hundred years. Yet last year she bore a foal of darkest black. I have no way of telling if it was the dam or the sire who introduced the weak strain. If it were to become public knowledge, then their value would be greatly reduced."

"What happened to the foal?" Hermione asked. She'd seen the others in the field, and everyone of them shone like black ink. Nothing she had ever read suggested that Granians gave birth to foals of one colour that changed as unicorns did.

"A friend took care of it. Do you know the Macnairs?"

That name stirred in Hermione the memory of an axe and a narrow escape. "Yes," she replied staring hard at the floor. "I know of them."

"I'm inordinately fond of Walden. It was very good of him to do me the favour." Mrs Malfoy slipped off the beam landing on the floor with barely a sound. "Shall we ride?" she asked, hauling the nearest saddle into her arms.

It was hard to squeeze the words out of her constricted throat. "No thanks," Hermione croaked, "I … I feel a little sick. Would you excuse me." 

__

How could she, how could she? Hermione asked herself as she ran back up to the house.

~o~

Sitting with her back to the wall and her legs drawn up, flicking through the pages of an open book that rested upon them, Hermione passed the rest of the morning away. On her return to the house she had gone first to the Malfoys' extensive library and then, feeling that she was intruding, she had borrowed the volume and retreated to the schoolroom. Unable to face Mrs Malfoy across the lunch table, she had stayed there and at two o'clock a house elf had appeared unbidden with a plate of sandwiches which lay, barely touched, on the floor beside her. Unable to concentrate on the spell she was practising, she threw down her wand in frustration, sending a small shower of sparks across the bare floorboards. 

It was late afternoon when Draco returned. She raised her head as he stalked into the schoolroom.

"Oh. Here you are," he said casually. 

"Hello, Draco." Hermione closed her book and placed it aside. As she straightened her legs, she gazed up at Draco. There was a stiffness about his jaw. His face was set with the chill calm of a snow peak glistening in the morning sun just before it slid down the mountain to crush an unsuspecting village in the valley below.

"Whatever did you say to mother?" he asked, a sharp edge beneath the enquiry. He leaned on the edge of the desk, one leg slightly bent, weight on one hand.

"Nothing," Hermione replied neutrally, unwilling to be drawn into an argument. She clambered to her feet and joined Draco, laying her hand across his. "Have you had a nice morning?"

"Don't try and change the subject." He drew his hand away and turned to face her, arms folded. "I've just had the most extraordinary conversation with her and I'd like to know what you said." 

Levering herself onto the desk, Hermione became very interested in a piece of dry skin on her thumb. "She was trying to make a point, Draco. About blood, about breeding." 

"Don't be ridiculous, Hermione. Look at me, will you!" he turned her toward him and seized her shoulders, jolting her head upwards. "If my parents had a problem they wouldn't allow you to be here. I thought this was all behind us."

With a shrug, she knocked his hands away and jumped to the floor. "You're missing the point, Draco."

"No, you are!"Aagain his fingers bit her shoulders. Sunshine streamed through the high window behind him flooding into Hermione's eyes. Blinking against the light, she struggled, but it seemed he wasn't about to let go. "Mother was talking about economics, something I'd've thought you'd understand. It may have escaped your notice but unless you possess a philosopher's stone there are very few ways of obtaining gold – you inherit it, find it, steal it, earn it, or you marry it. Having nothing left but the house and the name -- _that_ is exactly what father did. She's the secret behind our fortune."

A snort escaped Hermione's lips.

"Oh, that surprises you does it … spoils your nice little image of us does it?" he asked scornfully releasing her as if it stung to touch her. "Our wealth is sustained by those animals and by her reputation as a breeder. She will not risk that." Draco turned away and crossed to the window, his whole body a sigh.

"There's no reason to kill an innocent creature just because it's different," she cried. "It's like killing a muggleborn wizard or a wizard born squib."

"Who said she killed it?" He did not turn round.

"She said Macnair took care of it."

"Why must you always think the worst of us, Hermione? After everything we've gone through to get here … I thought at last that you understood but I'm wrong. I was wrong to invite you here. I…"

"You weren't wrong, I do understand." She grabbed his arm, turning him toward her, anxious to make him understand. "I just don't see why a creature should die just so you can make money."

"Listen to reason, Hermione. Nothing died! He happens to work for the department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and is ideally placed to relocate a rogue Granian without mother's name coming into it. You're the one putting words in her mouth that she never said."

Hermione fell silent. It was true; she had no evidence for anything at all. It was her own worries making her read things that were not there. "I didn't mean to upset her," she said quietly.

"She merely found your behaviour bizarre, not to mention a little ungracious."

"I'm sorry, I just assumed that …"

"Well don't assume!" He drew a deep breath. "I'll see you at dinner," he said, then stalked out, taking care to slam the door behind him. 

****

Authors Notes:

First, a huge thanks to my tireless (not to mention patient) betas – **Wolf of Solitude** and **Satella.**

Second, the Future of Le Deluge…

****

SPOILER ALERT:

Please do not read if you have not read OoTP

Following the release of OoTP, I have found it necessary to revise this chapter – there was a great deal of information regarding Thestrals which we now know is impossible. Chapter 3, in which we were to travel to St Mungos and meet Nevilles family and the condunded Lockhart, is now largely redundant (this is particularly galling as I have already written most of it). 

The remaining twelve chapters I have plotted require a high level of secrecy surrounding the operations of Voldemort and the Death Eaters. New facts from canon make this impossible. 

I regret to say that I may have to abandon Le Deluge.

Thank you all for your support, reviews, encouragment and comments – whatever happens I hope that you will read my next project … as yet, unknown.

~I~


End file.
